The XII
by ApocalypseBunny
Summary: Belisarius is a newly appointed Centurion in the XII legion of the Empire. A native Imperial, and a staunch(though somewhat cynical) patriot. This story starts in the great northern city of Bruma, with our protagonist fighting for his life against a great Nord army. Can he defend the city of his birth?
1. Chapter 1

By Akatosh my arms are tired. It's as if lead weights have been tied to them! But that's what happens in battle. Doesn't matter how strong you are, eventually, you'll get tired. That's what happened to Agrippus. Got so exhausted he couldn't lift his shield. That's when that Nord caved in his skull. I can still remember all that brain matter covering his hammer as I stabbed him in the ribs.

Those Nords and their axes and hammers. I haven't seen a single one with a sword yet. Makes holding a shield wall together hard. Those hammers can shatter even the best made shield eventually. They've broken through three times, and three times my fellow legionnaires and I have repulsed them. We're currently resting, recuperating. Gotta be fresh if you want to fight those bastards from the north.

I think too damn much. I know that, but it doesn't stop me. Centurion Gaius hated that about me. "A legionnaire fights!" He'd always yell. "He doesn't have time for thinking!" At least that's what he used to say. He died in the most recent wave. Now I've taken his place. He wasn't much for thinking. Kind of ironic, huh?

The name's Belisarius. I'm an Imperial, Centurion of the XII legion. And I like to think. As you can tell, I have a somewhat scattered thought process. But not during battle. When I fight, there is no thought. Only instinct. I guess that's why I stayed with the legion. Even after we lost the Imperial city. I used to fight bandits, monsters, and rebels. Now, I fight Nords, Bretons, even Khajiit. Everyone who isn't Imperial, basically. And at the moment, I'm defending the northern most city of Cyrodill, Bruma, from a Nordic invasion.

At the moment, I'm resting in the camp, polishing and repairing my gear. I notice that whenever I make eye contact with a legionnaire now, the give me a respectful nod and salute. They never did that with Gaius. Probably because he became Centurion due to his high birth. Hard to respect an officer who's seen less combat than you, honestly.

As I sat on my pack, I notice this strange sound. My ears actually start to ring because of it. I look around as a strange high pitched noise fills the air. "What's that's whistling sound"? I ask. I get my answer when I see a storm of arrows rip apart a Group of soldiers. I strap on my helmet and grab my shield as I yell to my century, " Gather around the standard! Form testudo! Now you sons of whores, now!"

I grunt as I feel my soldiers group up around me and raise their shields. Agrippina, Agrippus' twin sister, takes her place to my left. I made her one of my Decurions after I took charge. Much better officer thanks her brother was. She actually thinks.

"How long do you think this'll be sir?" She asks. Another volley slams into our shields. No cries. Everyone's still standing. Good. "No idea Agi." I say. The boys and I nicknamed her Agi. She hates it, but she deals with it. That's what makes a good soldier if you ask me. Not bravery or intelligence. The willingness to put up with bullshit.

Like most Imperials, me included, Agrippina has black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin. Not as dark as a redguard, mind you. We're more of a heavy tan. And then theres our hook noses. My mother would always joke that if an Imperial lost their sword, they could use their nose as a backup. I never thought it was funny. Still don't. Doesn't stop me from using it though.

The similarities end there though. Unlike many of my fellow warriors, I keep my hair very short. It's more stuble than hair, honestly. And unlike other Imperials, I have fairly high cheek bones. And I actually grow out my beard. It's grown a good three inches since I've stopped shaving in the past few months. Figure that if I get captured, the Nords will at least see my beard and say, "He's got a beard! Maybe we shouldn't kill him after all." I should really stop thinking so much. Doesn't seem to be doing me much good.

I notice something. Everything's silent. There hasn't been another volley in over a minute."Front ranks," I shout, "lower shields!" I hear a chorus of grunts as they rest their arms. It may seem strange how much we dislike shields, but when you spend hours at a time lifting a large iron rimmed tower shield, you'll understand. As I look up, I see another wave of Nords wielding hammers marching forward. I hear the occasional battle cry, cheer, and drunken curse as they approach. Nothing new.

Their archers have stopped firing. Don't want to accidentally shoot their own troops. Especially these bastards. 'Snow Hammer', their regiments called. Two thousand angry Nords with hammers as big as a nine year old. Have I mentioned how much it hurts when a hammer smacks into your shield? Cause it hurts.

"Soldiers!" I bark, "Form shield wall! Show these arse holes what a gladius tastes like!" I hear loud affirmation from the soldiers behind me. We might just win. Who knows, maybe I'll rise another rank. Well, if my pelt doesn't decorate a Nord's floor, that is.

I turn my attention back to the approaching horde. They've stopped. I see one approaching us. She's got some pretty shiny steel armor on. The horns kinda make it a little gaudy in my opinion, but to each their own. She stops about thirty meters from us and shouts, "Who leads these warriors!" Those Nordic accents are strange. Almost as if they've got jelly stuck to the roofs of their mouths.

"I do!" I shout back, "I am Centurion Belisarius, of the XII legion! You are?" She rests her hammer in the snow and shouts, "I am Skjora IceHammer, daughter of Harald IceHammer. General of the SnowHammers, and soon to be conquerer of Bruma!"

Ah, it's gonna be one of those talks. Lemme guess, you are gonna give us one chance to surrender? "I shall give you one chance to surrender!" Fucking knew it. "You have all fought well. We shall be kind and let you all live, provided you all drop your weapons!" This Bitch.

"Tell me Skjora," I reply, "Is Harald in Sovngarde?" She shifts her weight and shouts back, "Yes he is. Why?" I smile and yell, "I'm sure he'll be excited to see his daughter there tonight!" My soldiers roar with laughter. It's good to lighten the mood sometimes. Skjora turns to her soldiers and lifts her hammer. Oh gods, not a speech.

"Hey Nord! Skip the speech and fight already!" I yell. She turns and snarls quite loudly. I think I've irritated her. Good. "Charge!" She screams. The nords charge forward, all sense of discipline gone. That worked better than I expected.

"First rank, ready crossbows!" My men reach back and grab the crossbows attached to their belts. They place the bolt on the already cocked stock and aim. I wait until they're 30 meters away. Then, I give the order. "Fire!" Dozens of Nords fall to the ground as bolts pierce their armor and skin. Crossbows, while not having the reach of a good bow, have some serious stopping power up close. Their armor was little better than parchment.

"Second rank! Ready! Fire!" The first row kneels and the second fires their crossbows as well. Dozens more fall, their blood dampening the snow. "Third rank, ready! Fire!" Again, dozens die. I hear the screams of the dying, some crying, some angry. Some are laughing. "Final rank, ready! Fire!" I hear more cries as the final volley of bolts strike them down. As they fall, the Nord's charge falters. I can sense doubt seeping into their ranks. This is our chance. "Century! Charge!"

We lift our shields and draw our swords. I thumb the Imperial symbol on my gladius as I charge up the snow covered hill. The shouts of my soldiers fade as I fall into the battle trance. The Nords attempt to form a defensive stance, but they cannot. The bleeding bodies of they're comrades prevent them from holding solid ground.

"For the Empire!" I shout, as our forces collide. We trample the first row of Nords, the force of our charge knocking them over. I can hear their screams as they're crushed beneath our feet. The second row raises their hammers, waiting for our charge. We knock most of them over as well, stabbing those who fall and bashing those who survive back.

I stand my ground and shout, "Legionnaires! Hold! Form shield wall!" We group together, our shields overlapping in a long wall. The left of your shield goes behind your comrade's, while the right of your shield goes over the other one. Just like back in training. That's the glory of the legion. Discipline. Order.

My arm jars as a hammer slams into my shield. As she raises her hammer for another swing, I crouch and stab upwards. My gladius pierces leather and skin as it drives itself upwards, behind the ribs and ripping lungs. With a sickening sucking sound, I rip my blade out and bash her corpse back. A second Nord approaches, a roar on his lips. I raise my shield and parry his hammer as I jab my gladius into his throat. Blood spurts out from in between his fingers as he holds his ruined throat.

As I step back into formation, I spot that general, Skjora. I smile as I gut another Nord. This is a very good turn of events. These Snow Hammers have been battling the XII for days now. My group is in the center of the battle. The other centuries are on the right and left of us. We're all that's left of the center. If we can kill this Skjora, the flanks of the Nord army will crumble. And Bruma will be safe.

"Century! Push forward! Break these bastards!" I hear the heavy breathing of the warriors around me. The stench of blood, sweat, and piss fill my nostrils. I slash my sword at another Nord, and he rears back, screaming as he covers his eyes. I stab him in the heart, ending his misery.

I spot Skjora again, yelling, cheering her soldiers onwards. She's a true Nord, that one. Strong. Brave. And too proud for her own good. "Skjora!" I shout, "Skjora! I challenge you! Face me you coward! You skeeving horker!" Her heads snaps towards me as she snarls. I've got her attention it seems.

She screams as she charges at me. I leave the formation and charge forward. The Nords move aside to let me pass. The fools. I drop my sword and draw the crossbow hidden behind my shield. I aim it at Skjora and fire. She halts and stares at the bolt embedded in her stomach, disbelief in her eyes. She crumbles to her knees, blood seeping through her armor.

"Century! Ready!" The Nords stare in shock at us as we ready our crossbows again. They then charge, hoping to stop us. They don't. "Fire!" A storm of bolts rip into the unready Nords, killing over a hundred. They're only a token of the force they once were now. One hundred of the original six is all that's left. We still possess over one hundred and fifty. Their general is dead. They know they've lost.

As they turn to run, I feel the battle trance leave me. I'm calm once more. I can think again. I order my soldiers to fire at will. Dozens more fall to our bolts as they flee. Their archers seek to fight back and fire their own volley. I flinch as I hear the cries of my soldiers. "Legionaires! Form testudo!" I grunt as I raise my shield and join the century. "Legionaires! Forward!"

Their arrows clank uselessly against our shields as we march forward. As we near them, they begin to run as well. Some stay, refusing to run. They want an honorable death. We shall give them one. They charge at us, wild and angry. I hear cries from my warriors as they swing with wild abandon, having already accepted their deaths. My soldiers put an end to them.

"Century! Drop testudo!" There's a collective sigh of relief as they lower their shields. I notice Agi step forward, helmet under her arm. "Centurion, orders?" I stare at the field of dead around us. I hear moans of pain, and smell death on the wind. "Look through the dead. If you find any survivors, aid them, regardless of allegiance. All Nords are to become prisoners." "Anything else sir?" She asks, waiting expectantly.

"Find Skjora. And bring her to me." She nods and turns, relaying my orders to the others. I stare off into the distance and sit down. I take a swig from my water skin and stare at the image of Bruma on the horizon. I smile as sweat drips through my beard. Blood stains my armor, dulling the shine. This was Gaius' lorica segmenata. It didn't even get scratched during the battle. I'm pretty good at this, huh?


	2. Chapter 2

Say what you want about Nords, but you have to admit they've got good mead. My comrades seem to disagree, but I love the stuff. I guess growing up in Bruma endeared me to it. Oh well, more for me. And there's plenty of it. The Nord's baggage train was loaded with mead, beef, and the clearest water I've ever seen. It's just too bad that they're not the best cooks.

After we rounded up all the survivors, my century sacked the baggage train. We plundered, looted, and duly confiscated items by right of conquest. It's a tradition among soldiers. But that all pales in comparison to the real prize of the day: Skjora. Marcus, another of my Decurions, found her crawling towards the mountains. Stubborn bitch.

After we arrived back in Bruma, the XII held a small triumph, with my century at the center. We paraded our loot, our soldiers gloated, and our prisoners were mocked by the citizenry. That was when I left. I couldn't stand to see those warriors shamed. They may be my enemies, but I've been friends with the Nords for far longer than I've been their foe.

Now I'm sitting in my tent, drinking mead in my bed. Rank comes with some perks. A big personal tent, a desk, and a bed. A bed! This is how a noble goes on campaigns. Well, when they're in the field. At the moment, the blue bloods and their guards are occupying the barracks. They get a big fire, good food, and a bard. Meanwhile, us lowborns wallow in the dirt, trying to keep out the snow and ice.

"Centurion Belisarius." Oh shit. I'd know that voice anywhere. You know how your father was able to conjure up an authoritative voice out of nowhere? Imagine that, now make that voice deeper, and gruffer. As if there's a wolf claw stuck in his throat. That's the voice of Legatus Etruscus.

I jump off my bed and salute. "Sir! Centurion Belisarius reporting!" Why is my forehead suddenly cold? Oh gods. I'm still holding the mead. As I move to set down the jug, the Legate swipes it from my hand takes a swig. You could've just asked you know. The Legate grunts as he inspects the jug. Since when does the Legate drink? "Hm. Not bad for northern swill." Well nobody asked you.

"Centurion, I've heard how your crossbow strategy performed." I wait expectantly, studying the Legate's face. Unreadable, as usual. "I'll be blunt Centurion. I don't like it." Fuck. "It goes against tradition and it makes our soldiers seem weak and cowardly. We're infantry, not archers." Well there goes my position as Centurion. "But it works." What? "You fought off a numerically superior force with far more experience with a small group of legionnaires. Many of whom are still little better than raw recruits. I may not like it, but it wins battles."

He moves to my desk and picks up my helmet, inspecting its condition. I see the red scar on his leathery cheek scrunch up as he frowns. He turns and looks at me, dead in the eyes. His black hair is speckled with grey on the sides, and his eyes hold something in them. Experience, knowledge, and pride. Lots of pride. A dangerous combination. But he's smart. And he's one of us. Unlike his blue blood brethren, he sleeps, eats and shits with us grunts. He knows how we think. And we love him for it.

"You'll report to quarter master Octavian. He'll issue you some better gear, and assign you your new Centurions." My new what? "Sir, what do you mean?" I ask. "You're smart Belisarius. And you know how these Nords think. Your recent accomplishments require due compensation." He walks forward and pushes a new gladius into my hands. "You are hereby given rank of Tribune. You shall command the first cohort. And don't worry, I've already ordered the crossbows for your soldiers." He turns and walks out of the tent. As he leaves, he says "Congratulations, Tribune."

As he left, I stood there for several moments, trying to process what had happened. Tribune? A cohort? That's insane! He expects me to lead four hundred soldiers?! That's a fourth of our entire legion!,

Then, I looked at the sword. It's pommel and guard were made of a polished oak, strong and unyielding. The hilt had a series of divots, making room for the fingers. And as I drew the gladius from its leather sheath, I gaped in astonishment. The blade was made from a combination of Orcish and Nord blacksmithing techniques. It's orcish design gave it great density and strength, making it capable of penetrating even plate armor. Its Nordic traits gave it the ability to bend and flex, making it far more durable, and less likely to shatter under stress.

But it's greatest quality, was it's simplicity. There are no great runes etched into the blade, or symbols carved into the wood. This is not a weapon meant to be shown off as some officer's toy. This is a soldier's tool.

Before I even realized it, I had marched to Octavian's quarters, waiting to hear about the requisitions for my cohort. The required amount of food, water, alcohol, medical supplies. You know, the fun stuff. But I also had another matter I wished to focus on. I will choose my Centurions.

Octavian was working at the desk he had set up outside his tent. His hands were a blur as he wrote, stamped, and tapped them across the desk. Now, Octavian was not an average quarter master. He was a lowborn, like many of us. His parents were merchants, so he grew up around numbers, coin, and barbarism. Perfect fit for the job.

He was also the largest Imperial I'd ever seen. At six feet and seven inches tall, he dwarfed many of us. Not even most Nords were his height. And they weren't as large either. I'm talking two hundred and seventy pounds of raw muscle. Because of that, the Legate likes to keep him around as a body guard (among other things).

He's also the coldest and most uncaring human I have ever met. Even his appearance is ruthless. His face is hard and angular, with a wide jaw and a narrow chin. His eyes are green, and very large. He grows his hair out long, and keeps it in a horse tail, complimenting his already evil appearance.

With that being said, he's also highly intelligent. In a scholarly way. He has a lot of knowledge and know how, but has no experience. He's never even fought before. I can't think of a single soldier who enjoys his company. Even the Legate doesn't like him. He just happens to be one of the few attractive (I use the term loosely) gay men in the legion. And holy shit does he hate me.

"Octavian, I'm here to-", he holds up a finger and continues to write. After he finishes, he looks up and says in his terrifying monotone voice, "I'm well aware of why you are here. I've already completed the transactions required, and the crossbows will be issued tomorrow. We have enough rations for three months, and all our equipment has been prepared. Anything else?" He asks, almost as if he's daring me to bother him some more. Challenge accepted, arsehole.

"I want you to put into the records the new Centurions of my cohort." He scowls at me and dips his quil into the ink. As he hovers his hand over the scroll, he looks up expectantly. "Aggripa Scippianus." He begins to write with exaggerated annoyance.

"Clemens Grumianus. Claudia Jullii. And Marcus Hapeaus." As I say the last name, Octavian looks up with astonishment. "Marcus?" He asks. "The man who's older than many Tribunes and Legates? Why in the name of Juliano would you make him a Centurion?"

There's a reason I can understand his doubts. Marcus has been in the legion longer than any of us. He enlisted when he was twenty, and has fought in at least thirty different battles. He's currently fourtie-five years old. But despite his age, he's an incredible soldier. Sadly, he doesn't enjoy being a soldier. He's seen too much, fought too hard, and lived too long to continue this kind of life. But he has no choice. Money makes the world go round, they say. He barely getting enough to keep his planet alive.

"I'm well aware of his age, Octavian. Now do as I say and mark him down." He begrudgingly does so, then immediately begins to ignore my existence. As I walk back to my tent, I hear a commotion. Someone is yelling. A women, I think.

Wait. I recognize that voice. It seems our captive is finally awake. I smile as I suppress a laugh. "Well Skjora." I say, as I enter the tent. "Willing to answer some questions?"


End file.
